Chapter 4

~Seven years later~

“Well, folks, looks like we’ve reached the climax of the evening,” the auctioneer announced with a wink that was definitely not in the charity brochure. “Lot number twelve: Hope’s Embrace.”

Claudine wanted to throw up her expensive champagne. Hope’s Embrace, her ass. She knew what was in that “collection.” Not some fancy painting, but a box. A gilded cage, to be precise. And inside? Terrified girls, their futures about to be sold off like… well, like very expensive livestock. Human trafficking, with a side of canapés.

This whole night was a twisted joke. A “charity event,” they called it. A chance for the world’s most powerful (and most messed-up) mafia bosses to pat each other on the back while getting their kicks. The money, they said, went to “help the needy.” Claudine knew where it really went: straight into their Swiss bank accounts, funding empires built on blood and broken lives. And tonight, here in Russia, was their big show. Their “look how powerful we are” party, held every two years.

The room was a freak show. Men in suits that probably cost more than her apartment building, their faces hidden behind fancy cat masks, puffed on cigars that smelled like money and sipped champagne that tasted like lies. Women glittered in diamonds, their eyes shiny with a mix of boredom and hunger. It wasn’t about hiding who they were, not really. It was about not being held responsible. What happened here, stayed here. No pesky reporters, no awkward questions. A world war wouldn’t start, but a lot of souls would be crushed.

Claudine, fresh from a much needed bathroom break, weaved through the crowd with a practiced smile. She’d ditched Gregory, her date, with some excuse about needing “a moment of privacy.” In reality, she’d been getting updates from her handlers, the tiny earpiece hidden in her hair buzzing with their orders.

Her heart was doing the cha-cha in her chest as she moved. She wore a necklace, a sparkly thing that was actually a high-tech camera, its tiny lens hidden in the biggest “diamond.” It was recording everything. Every deal, every dirty secret, every awful moment of this sick show.

“We’re starting the bidding at a cool million,” the auctioneer purred, his voice smooth as oil. “Anyone want to make it two?”

Claudine touched her ear, giving her contact the lowdown. “They’re selling the girls,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Lot twelve. Hope’s Embrace. I’m going to be sick.”

The auctioneer droned on, his words a nasty soundtrack to the clinking glasses and the rustle of expensive fabric. They were selling other stuff, too. A “classic car” (a truckload of guns), a “rare furniture set” (crates of ammo). Everyone here was in on it. Even the waiters and servers had a side hustle playing.

And so did she. Just like seven years ago, she was here today for a reason. A reason that burned inside her like a bad case of heartburn.

Her eyes scanned the room, a mix of nerves with a serious, get-this-done look. This place… this fancy, messed-up estate… it used to be her family’s. Her dad’s empire. Before the Vancouvers took it all. Nobody here knew who she really was. “Claudine” wasn’t even her real name. Just another mask in the endless game she was forced to play.

Gregory Vancouver, her date for the night (ugh), was the second son of the late Owen Vancouver. Owen and her father, Vladimir Kalashnikov, had been… “allies.” The American and Russian mafia, the big dogs of the underworld, joined by a secret clause. A deal that said if one died, the other would take over temporarily until the heir were old enough.

Then, everything went to hell. The Vancouvers, in a bloody power grab—which wasn’t the entire truth, but Claudine is yet to find out the real reason why the two men turned against each other-- then killed her family.

Owen, that snake, used the clause to justify his takeover, wiping out every Kalashnikov except her and her little brother, whom he thought were dead. He even let her two aunts live, as long as they stayed quiet and out of the way.

Now, Owen was gone, and his son, Gregory, had inherited the mess. He was running the Russian side of things, trashing her family’s name with every crime he committed. He had a twisted mind with the type of crimes he used the Kalashnikov’s name to cover.

The guy she’d attacked seven years ago, the one whose cross she’d stolen, was Gregory’s older brother: Hadeson Vancouver. Hades. The Crossbearer. He was the boss of the American dealings. The real muscle.

She prayed she wouldn’t run into him tonight. She’d gone through a lot of trouble to change how she looked. A nose job, a subtle facelift, a new, edgy haircut with bangs, and a body that screamed “don’t mess with me” thanks to years of FBI training. She was curvier now, stronger, with abs that could cut glass. She was a different woman than the scared girl he’d seen seven years ago.

But still, the fear was there, hiding in the back of her mind. The thought of seeing him again was paralyzing.

This building, this estate, her family’s history, now a monument to their loss, made her feel… weird. She knew every room, every hall, every secret passage. Even though she and her brother hadn’t lived here long – they were eight and six when their lives blew up – it was still home. Until that night.

Since then, she and her brother had been ghosts, bouncing from one foster home to another, always looking over their shoulders. Until she was fourteen, and they met Drey. That idiot. His family had taken them in, given them a fake normal life. And that’s how she’d fallen for him. A love that now tasted like poison.

Andre. That unfortunate swine godforsaken bastard.

She choked down the last of her margarita, the extra vodka doing little to soothe the rage that burned in her chest. She moved to a quieter part of the hall, near a huge window overlooking the estate. Outside, the night buzzed with the sound of fancy cars and the shadows of too many men, all part of this brutal so called gala event.

If not for Drey’s betrayal, she wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be a puppet for the FBI, their reluctant weapon. There was no “phase two,” no grand plan to take down the Vancouvers.

The truth sucked. Drey hadn’t been helping her get revenge. He’d been playing his own game. After she’d grabbed the evidence from Hades that night, Drey had sold it to their enemies, some Italian mob family. He’d been making deals behind her back, promising them the Vancouvers’ secrets for a big payday. He was supposed to give it to the Feds!

But Drey, that lying, greedy dimwit, had betrayed her. He’d run, leaving her to face the music. And the Italians… they were even worse than the Vancouvers. They’d stiffed him, then used him, blackmailed him, turned him into someone she didn’t even recognize.

Until one night, she’d gotten the news: Drey was dead, his body dumped in an alley. The Italians, it turned out, couldn’t touch the Vancouvers. A war had broken out – Russians against Americans against Italians – but the Vancouvers had won. They were shaken, forced to lay low for a while, but now they were back, bigger than ever. Tonight’s party was their way of saying, “Try and mess with us. We dare you.” A testament of their power for anyone who had contrast intentions.

And Drey… he’d died for nothing.

The FBI had found her, eventually. They knew she was involved. There was enough proof to tie her to the heist. She’d told them the truth, or at least, part of it. She’d left out her Kalashnikov bloodline, sticking to the foster home story. She hadn’t mentioned her revenge plan.

The FBI had “taken her in.” Translation: blackmail. They hadn’t arrested her, but they’d made it clear: play ball, or she’d be thrown in jail as a crime accomplice and her brother gets in the mix. For the past six years, she’d been their weapon, their “break-in, break-out girl,” the sexy agent sent in to charm and deceive. Tonight was just another job. Get the dirts, get out. Alive.

Her date, Gregory, had no clue who she really was. Their “meeting” in Spain a month ago had been staged, a performance for an audience of one. Now, she was here, playing the part of his sophisticated, alluring arm candy, all while plotting his family’s downfall.

So far, so good. She just needed to find his office, or any little thing that could bring these mobsters down. Even if it meant taking down her own family in the process. She was past caring.

She didn’t trust the FBI. Not really. Her life was in their hands, but it felt more like a leash than protection. They’d given her a deal, not a choice: work for them. But h brothers safety was her true motivation. For the past five years, he’d been safe, hidden away with their father’s twin sister in Russia, learning the family business, waiting for the day they’d strike back.

The auction finally ended, the room buzzing with a weird mix of relief and excitement. Claudine used the chaos to slip away, her eyes scanning the crowd. And then, she saw him.

Immediately, her lungs forget how to breath.

He’d taken off his mask.

Hadeson Vancouver. The crossbearer.

Seven years had changed him. He was older, tougher. The boyish looks were gone, replaced by a hard intensity. His jaw was sharper, his eyes colder. He was even more handsome, insanely Greek-godly handsome, in a way that made her stomach do a weird flip-flop.

Still frozen, her fake smile dying on her lips. He was staring daggers right at her at first, and then his brows furrowed suspiciously.

She turned fast, her heart pounding in her ears, and headed for the nearest exit. She needed a drink. And a cigarette. Stat.